Dead of Winter
by inked-myth
Summary: "I couldn't let them go," Cyril muttered, staring darkly at the glass window, "I couldn't just pick twenty-four, either...and they kept coming! So many interesting children, so many of my greatest feats! Oh, I did good with these ones." - The 25th Hunger Games. SYOT Open!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Welcome! I'll keep this short and sweet, but this is an SYOT. If you are interested, please read to the bottom and find the form on my profile.

Happy reading :)

* * *

 _Dead of Winter_

 _Chapter One_

* * *

 **Bemus Linell, Head Gamemaker.**

* * *

Some people would call Cyril Aucostine positively insane for his ideas.

Bemus was one of them, to an extent. His old friend was a creative individual with many years of knowledge and prowess under his belt in the field of science. But as of late...it seemed he was unravelling at a rather alarming rate. Bemus put it down to the toll of being a Gamemaker for the past twenty-four years, watching the bloodbath of dead children.

Deep down, Bemus knew he was to blame: he did, after all, land Cyril the job as Head Scientist many, many years ago. And with the Quarter Quell coming up this year – a fanciful idea created by himself – he knew that Cyril was under an enormous amount of pressure to deliver even more than normal.

What Bemus didn't know, however, was how prepared Cyril was.

He walked down the hall briskly, carrying his suitcase. It was after dark and many of his people had returned home to their loving families. He knew Cyril hadn't – he was burning the midnight oil in his lab.

He reached the door and knocked twice, gaining no response.

"Cyril?" He called out, "Cyril, you need to go home," He banged again, hearing a faint shuffle on the other side. "Let me in at least."

The door swung open erratically. In the darkness of his lab, Cyril's mad eyes shone. "Bemus!" He cheered.

"Cyril...you look terrible."

"I look fantastic, I feel fantastic!" Cyril grinned, "Come in, come in! I was hoping to show you this sooner rather than later!"

Cyril stepped back into the darkness of the lab. Tentatively, Bemus followed, looking around at the eerie glow of the monitors, casting blue shadows across the room. Cyril was at his desk, hands scrambling for something.

"This can wait until morning, surely?"

"No, it can't! Not now that you're here!" Cyril exclaimed, finally turning on his desk lamp. The warm glow of the room did nothing to make Bemus feel any better about the situation. The room was strewn with paperwork, everything hastily scribbled and thrown aside. There was no sense of order – no sense of Cyril.

"Cyril..." Bemus murmured, staring intently at his friend, "Cyril, I don't think we should do this now..."

Cyril's hand snapped out, grabbing onto Bemus, "Oh, but we must!"

He dragged Bemus across the room, right to the furthest side where a large, metal door stood. Bemus shifted uncomfortably. Cyril peered over his glasses as he bent down for the retina scan. The door slid open.

"Where are we heading?" Bemus queried.

"Downstairs!"

"But that's the morgue."

"Precisely!"

Cyril towed him down the stairs, giggling so softly under his breath that Bemus barely noticed it at first. He was too focused on the unhinged look of Cyril. Had he not noticed it before? Did he pay no attention to his friend's slow unravelling?

At the very bottom stood another door that Cyril opened once more. Down in the basement of the lab, it was much cooler, and Bemus instinctively pulled his suit jacket tighter around him – from the cold or the knowledge that he would see dead bodies in person for the first time, he didn't know.

It was much brighter than Bemus expected – but that was because he wasn't in the morgue. It was another room, with a single computer. Behind a wall of glass stood the mortuary with its many containers.

"Why the morgue?" Bemus asked, dread creeping up his spine.

"It'll make sense when you see them!"

" _Them_?"

"Yes, _them_! Cyril spun around to face him. Violet bags under his eyes and sunken cheeks just proved Bemus' worst thoughts: Cyril was not okay any more. "When you see them, you will lose your mind! It's all for you...for the Quell!"

Bemus was unsettled, "I don't see-"

He was cut off by Cyril's hand racing over the computer, "This is my idea, my _creation_."

A single light turned on in the mortuary. Bemus gritted his jaw, watching as a draw opened. He couldn't see more than the feet and a single toe tag – which he was grateful for.

"They're dead..." Bemus stated the obvious, "I don't-"

"I couldn't let them go," Cyril muttered, staring darkly at the glass window, "I couldn't just pick twenty-four, either...and they kept coming! So many interesting children, so many of my greatest feats! Oh, I did good with these ones. Do you remember last year?"

Bemus nodded, "Yes, I do."

"I saved at least three of that one alone! Oh, it was so _good_!"

"Cyril...they're dead."

"Not necessarily! I mean, they are, but they're also not. They don't _have_ to be," Cyril pressed a few more buttons, and a monitor appeared overhead. Wires connected up automatically to the body. Through a large tube, Bemus watched as a dark, black liquid slid straight down, disappearing under the white blanket of the body, "I can bring them back..."

Realisation dawned on Bemus. A lump formed in his throat as the body's toes began to twitch.

"Do you see that?" Cyril screamed. Bemus felt his heart fall out of his chest. "He's back."

"This..." Bemus trailed off in disbelief, unable to remove his eyes from the twitching toes on the morgue slab.

"I picked the best. I mean, _we_ can pick the best. The best for our people...for my Quell," Cyril grinned, turning to a bone white Bemus, "Isn't it perfect? Tell me you think so. Tell me you believe in me, Bemus, my old friend."

He couldn't find the words to describe his feelings: a rush of fear, disgust, and pride confused his judgement. He wanted to hate it. He so badly wanted to refuse Cyril's plan. _How would the districts approve? To see their dead children alive, to die once more? How would a Victor be chosen? What would they receive?_

"I'll have to talk to the President about this."

"Bemus," Cyril's voice was soft now as he touched Bemus' hand on the control panel, "You like it, don't you? I did this for you. For us and our legacy."

Bemus forced a smile, "Of course I do, old friend."

Some people would call Cyril Aucostine positively insane for his ideas – but as mad as he was, he was also a genius.

A dangerous combination to own.

* * *

I will be creating a blog for this story - watch this space!

* * *

All deaths will be based on a number of factors - I hope you understand and continue to stick around as the numbers dwindle.

* * *

 **A/N** : Just so we're clarified, all the information you need to know is on my profile, along with the form. This is the 25th Hunger Games, completely non-canon. I will suspend realism to a degree in favour of a better, more impactful story.

Reviews are appreciated and welcome, as is feedback in general. Feel free to submit more than one tribute, also!

Thank you for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thank you so much to those who have submitted already! Keep them coming!

* * *

 _Dead of Winter_

 _Chapter Two_

* * *

 **Cyril Aucostine, Head Scientist.**

* * *

He couldn't stop replaying last night over and over in his head.

Everything had been so perfect. From the dramatic reveal of his plan, to Bemus' delightful reaction. When he closed his eyes, he could almost feel the pride emanating from his oldest friend. Not only would it cement Bemus' legacy for when he retired, but it would also make Cyril's work legendary. Everybody would know he was!

And that's all he wanted – for his work to speak for itself, and be on everybody's lips.

Last night was a blur. He couldn't remember if he had even slept. There was still so much to do to perfect it. He wanted to ensure that nothing fell short of their expectations – or even his own, for that matter. He couldn't skip any a detail, no matter how minor.

The sound of his alarm clock drew his attention away from his paperwork. Behind his spectacles, morning had arisen. He glanced down at his watch – he had worked through the entire night.

But he was still so far from being finished.

Panic seized his chest. He jumped up from his seat, knocking over his chair. He scrambled for the paperwork, stuffing them into his briefcase, crumpled and disorganised.

The door opened gently. "Cyril?"

He spun around. Cristobel – his second in-command – was at the door, "Bel!"

She stepped in with a smile, "You worked all night again, didn't you?"

"I had to," Cyril defended himself, "Every minute counts."

Cristobel came to his side, placing her hand on his shoulder gently, "Did you manage to tell him?"

"Bemus?" Cyril smiled, memories flooding back to him. Pride swelled in his chest. "I did. Oh, Bel, he was so happy! He couldn't stop grinning and laughing! He almost seemed mad with delight."

"I'm so happy for you."

"Thank you," Cyril held her hand on his shoulder, "I couldn't have done it without you. Or Maha, for that matter. I just need _her_ to agree to it. But she will, won't she? Why wouldn't she? It's the greatest thing I've ever created – it's even better than Howler!"

"Howler was tough to beat," Cristobel grinned, "He was the perfect Mutt."

"Oh, I wish she didn't make me destroy him after that year," Cyril frowned, "He would have made the perfect pet. I had Maha sew the boy together that he ripped apart. Do you remember? That was a glorious day!"

"There's still so much to do," Cristobel reminded him, "Have you chosen who you want to send forward? Or did Mr. Linell choose?"

"I have a meeting with her today," Cyril giggled, eyes sparkling with delight, "But I'm hoping Bemus has given her a heads up, just in case she's left speechless by it. I hope she is. I want to wow her so badly."

He had wanted to choose his favourites – but he knew that the Madame President would want to. He was lucky that he enjoyed them all so much. Not to mention the amount of effort and lengthy process he went to embalming each body, preserving their very characteristics. Then, Cristobel was able to make the formula _just_ right, enough to bring them to life on a monitor. From there, despite being strapped to a monitor and teetering on the edge of resurrection and death, Cyril was able to keep many memories and personalities in tact.

But they couldn't be strapped to a monitor in the Games, oh no. They had to run and fight and breathe! With a lot of effort and dastardly science, he had managed to make them mobile, as if nothing had ever happened to them. Of course, some were worst than others – like the boy sewn together, whose arm was turning gangrenous slowly. Or the girl whose face would be scarred from the fire that claimed her youth.

They still had so much to do. And then, Cyril Aucostine would be legendary.

* * *

Throughout the day, Cyril and Cristobel worked closely in perfecting the formula. Maha made an appearance, touching the future tributes up with her delicate finesse. From the other side of the glass, Cyril watched with gross fascination as Maha sat down next to the little boy once more, a sewing kit in her hand.

He pressed the buzzer and whispered, "How is it looking?"

She turned and smiled sadly, "It's still pretty bad. The stitches won't hold onto the dead tissue. He's...rotting away."

"Maybe he needs more embalming," Cristobel offered up.

"Possibly," Cyril frowned. _Why won't it take?_ "Maha, do you have any ideas?"

Maha paused, needle in hand. She looked down at the boy and then back up at the glass. "I'm not sure. I can hide it as much as possible, and if he's chosen, the stylists could use permanent make-up to hide the gangrene...but I'm not sure. I don't think he's a viable candidate any more."

Fire burned in his throat and tears pricked his eyes. It was unravelling all around!

"Keep him," Cyril croaked, trying not to sound dramatic by the latest hurdle he had to face, "I want him in the Games. He's perfect."

"Cyril...he's basically a puppet."

"Aren't they all?" He responded, "They're _my_ puppets. My creations. He...he was the best one. I had such high hopes for him. Can you imagine their excitement when they see a boy, completely torn to shreds, back and running for his life once more?"

He knew he shouldn't have grown so attached – but an artist without feelings is no longer an artist, simply a forger. Howler had done a number on the boy. Each limb was ripped from socket. He had faith in his science, but maybe fate just didn't want the boy to make it.

Luckily, for a man of science, fate was irrelevant.

"Try harder," Cyril commanded steely, "He _will_ make it. Use wires! Use steel rods! I want that boy in the Games. He has to make it!" Maha silently went back to work. A flash of anger flickered in Cyril's eyes as he turned to Cristobel, "What do you think?"

"We can't save them all."

"We can!"

"Cyril..." Cristobel turned to look at him. In her eyes, he saw disbelief – that only made Cyril more angry. Why couldn't his own team be as supportive as Bemus? "I think you should take a break. I'll finish up the numbers, and Maha can continue to sew. He's one of many, I'm sure we could use the other one-"

"Stop doubting me!"

Silence befell the lab. Cyril didn't think as he swung his fist out, connecting with the closest monitor. It cracked on impact. Cristobel shrieked. Through the haze of his anger, he only saw glass embedded in his knuckles, blood dripping onto the console below.

He stood up silently, cradling his bleeding hand, "I have a meeting to attend."

"Cyril, wait."

"Continue to work," Cyril stopped her, "I will be back. And when I _am_ back, I expect results. Don't fail me. Believe in me, okay?"

Collecting his briefcase off the table, Cyril left the lab, blood dripping as he went.

* * *

Excitement was something that Cyril knew well. He felt it every time his genius ideas collected another soul that garnered a round of applause from the Capitolites: even if they didn't know it was all down to him. Or when he saw a broken Victor, relieving the nightmares that he had so cruelly put them through.

He couldn't contain himself. He was practically vibrating with joy as he sat on the leather couch, waiting and watching people pass by, staring at him strangely. The elevator doors opened and Bemus stepped out. Cyril shot out of his seat and flagged him down. Hurriedly, Bemus approached him, a look of bewilderment in his eyes.

"What are you doing here?" Bemus asked, before noticing the blood, "Why are you bleeding?"

Cyril looked down at his oozing knuckles, "I'm not sure..."

"You can't be here. You need to go and get cleaned up."

"Why not?"

"This meeting is for Gamemakers – I mean, the important ones," Bemus sighed, "I told you I would talk to her on your behalf."

Cyril couldn't explain the feeling blooming in his chest – sadness, anger, confusion. He looked at his friend, sore knuckles clenching around his briefcase, "I always attend the meetings."

"This one is...different," Bemus defended.

"In what way?"

"In every way."

"You're lying," Cyril took a step back, hurt by the rejection, "Am I not important?"

"I never said that," Bemus shook his head, voice low, "Cyril, you're making a scene. You're bleeding everywhere. You need to go and get cleaned up, before somebody sees you and questions your sanity."

Cyril blinked away the unwanted tears in his eyes, "Do you think I'm crazy?"

"No, no," Bemus cooed, "I just don't want people to get the wrong impression, you know? The President hasn't requested to see you yet. This is more about the...finer details of the Quell. I will tell her, and I promise that, when I do, I'll ask her to get into contact with you."

Cyril almost accepted that. _Almost_. Over Bemus' shoulder, he watched the President exiting the elevator, flanked by her team. She was tall and imposing – towering over most people. Her dark hair shielded her eyes as she walked to the meeting room.

"Cyril, don't-"

It was too late. Cyril shoved Bemus to the side and bounded forward, bloody hand stretched out, "Madame President!" he cheered, "We meet once more."

Her team swiftly surrounded her. Cyril frowned, confused. His eyes glanced down at the floor – speckled with red. Was somebody bleeding? From behind her entourage of burly men, the President spoke, "How may I help you?"

Cyril's jittery hands clasped at his briefcase, popping it open, "I have my designs for you to see!"

A moment of silence felt like forever. "Very well. Collect them."

Silently, one of the men grabbed his notes, passing them back into the mass of bodies for the President to hopefully look over. Cyril was giddy with excitement. He glanced around to see Bemus sat on the couch, eyes fixated on the floor.

"Do you like them?" Cyril asked, turning back, toothy grin and all.

There was no response. The burliest man at the front – complete with dark glasses hiding his eyes – wore an unconvincing smile on his face. To the man, he saw an untidy and greasy man, speaking nonsense and acting crazy. Cyril simply smiled back, unapologetic in his unknown madness.

"What's your name?" A voice rose from the ring of bodyguards.

He frowned, "Don't you remember me?"

"I have many employees. I can't remember everyone. You'll have to excuse my ignorance and enlighten me as to who you are."

He swallowed the lump in his throat. "Cyril Aucostine. I'm...I'm your scientist."

"Do you work under Bemus?"

His heart skipped a beat at hearing that. Bemus must've told her about him, just like he promised he would've! All this time – and Bemus was simply teasing Cyril to make him work harder. Silly Bemus.

"Yes!" he almost shouted, grinning madly, "Yes, yes I do! We've been working on this for a long time now, a _long_ time. It's taken many, many years of research and...and dedication to our cause – no, _your_ cause!"

There was no response. Silently, the entourage guided the President into the room. Cyril's hope deflated as quickly as it rose. Everything around him turned grey. It was only Bemus' hand on his shoulder that whiplashed him back into reality - a cold, dejected reality.

"I'll handle it from here," Bemus' voice wasn't friendly any more – it was hardened, annoyed. "I told you to let me deal with it."

"I just wanted her to know it was me..."

"And it might've cost you everything," Bemus shook his head, "Just go back downstairs, Cyril. I mean it. Don't ruin this any more than you already have."

Bemus entered the room and the door closed. Cyril didn't move for a long time – and when he did, he did it with purpose. Anger and resentment filled every vein in his unkept body. He stormed past every floor, back down to his basement. When he arrived, Cristobel was at her work station, perfecting the formula as told.

She was about to ask him about his meeting, but he strode on past, straight to the stairs and down one further level – to the mortuary.

Behind the glass, Maha was still at work, focused on the latest cadaver on her slab.

He stopped. Took in the scene. Adrenaline made him shaky, mixing with his anger. His fists clenched. More blood dripped to the floor. It was an intoxicating feeling that made him grin, before he started laughing under his breath until he was eventually cackling loudly.

Deep down, he knew he had completed the impossible. There was no denying it.

They would never forget his name after this.

* * *

I will be creating a blog for this story - watch this space!

* * *

All deaths will be based on a number of factors - I hope you understand and continue to stick around as the numbers dwindle.

* * *

 **A/N** : I still have two more chapters before we introduce any tributes, so I will be accepting certain tributes as we go along that I really connect with - others, I might hold out on. It's nothing personal. As I said on my profile, I just want a diverse cast. If anyone is interested in submitting more than one tribute, they are more than welcome!

Please head to my profile for the form and any/all details that are crucial for the story.

Thank you for reading!


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